


out of the blue clear sky

by athena3062



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Captain Swan AU Week 2015, F/M, Fake Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 14:24:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4482677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena3062/pseuds/athena3062
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After serving as a nurse in the Great War, Emma Swan returned to America and found her old life unrecognizable. She went to a small coastal town in Maine to start over. When a soldier she thought she’d never see again arrives in town, Emma’s life is turned upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“There’s someone outside for you.” 

Emma untied her apron. “I don’t care.” The lunch bell had rung a few minutes ago and the main floor was nearly deserted. Through the open windows, Emma could hear the sounds of her fellow workers as they ate beneath the striped awning on the eastern side of the cannery. 

No matter how many times she washed her hands, the reek of fish remained. It had taken almost a year before she could go through an entire shift without being overwhelmed by the smell.  

Ruby didn’t seem to notice it. She’d grown up in the small coastal town and had spent more of her time on the water than on land. Her mother had worked in the cannery and her father on one of the larger boats. 

Ruby’s hands went to her hips, grin widening. “He said his name is Killian Jones.”

Emma froze. It was impossible. It couldn’t be him, not the same man who told her stories about his childhood while they bounced through rough roads. She hadn’t gotten close to anyone during her first seven months overseas, too overwhelmed by the sounds and the smells. 

Ruby touched her arm. “Did you hear me?”

Emma licked her lips quickly. “Where is he?”

“Come on.” Ruby wrapped her hands around Emma’s right arm. “Granny’s giving him an earful.”

Reluctantly Emma followed Ruby outside, through the double doors that separated the cannery from the docks. For a moment she thought Ruby was wrong, but when she met his gaze, Emma knew it was him. 

Nursing hadn’t been her first choice; she’d signed up on a whim, scribbling her name onto the paper before she could change her mind. Emma had never imagined herself dressing wounds or transporting supplies. 

Killian had followed his older brother into the service of his country, without a second thought. It had taken several days before she stopped hearing his accent and was able to focus on his words instead (he was a gifted storyteller, even if he denied it loudly).

Emma clenched her hands in tight fists. He was dressed simply, dark coat and trousers. Before Emma could catalog other changes, Granny turned and gestured at Emma. 

“There she is. I told you Ruby could find her.” Gravel crunched beneath Emma’s feet; she stopped next to Granny, hoping she didn’t look as nervous as she felt. Granny stared at Emma over her spectacles. “I think you might know this gentleman?” Her lips twitched into a smile.

Emma stepped closer, heart beating erratically. When she arrived in Storybrooke, it had been easier to tell everyone she was a war widow. No one had pressed but now Emma felt the weight of her lies against her shoulders. One wrong word and he would upend her life. 

“Killian?” She hoped she sounded like a woman seeing her (presumed) dead husband for the first time. 

He grinned. “Emma.” His arms went around her waist before Emma could say anything, pulling her close to his chest. She allowed herself to relax for the briefest instant, hands pressed against his back. 

Emma stepped out of Killian’s embrace. They needed to talk, alone. She wrapped one hand around Killian’s elbow, ready to dig her nails into his arm if he said anything that would lead Granny to the wrong conclusions. Ruby was Emma’s second friend in town (Mary Margaret being the first) and Granny had always been good to Emma and Henry. She couldn’t alienate them now.

“Would you excuse us?” She tried to keep her voice level. 

Ruby stepped aside. “Why don’t you head out early?” Emma shook her head, objections rising in her throat, but Ruby winked. “On me.” 

Emma tried to smile. She never missed a shift or switched with the other girls, preferring to take the earliest shift and leave before the sun dipped too low. The schedule gave her plenty of time to retrieve Henry from Mary Margaret’s house and return to their cabin before dark. The distance between town and Emma’s cabin was reasonable, but lately Henry had been less willing to be carried, doubling the time it took for them to get anywhere.

“I’ll make it up to you,” she told Ruby. 

Emma didn’t let go of Killian’s arm until they were out of earshot. “Come on,” she snapped, tugging Killian around a corner. Hidden from casual observation by a stack of crates, Emma rounded to face Killian.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came to find you.” Killian retrieved a faded envelope from his coat pocket and Emma inhaled sharply. 

She tensed. The letter in his hand was a mistake. After nearly two years of silence, fueled by loneliness and heartache, she’d poured her feelings into a letter. Emma had posted it without caring whether Archie would find the address strange. When the letter had gone unanswered, weeks turning to months, Emma had thought she was safe. She began to relax; it hadn’t reached him and was lost somewhere across the ocean. She was wrong.

“I wrote that almost four months ago.”

He had the decency to look embarrassed. “I know. I didn’t know if I should come.”

“How could you?” she fired back.

Angry tears burned her eyes. The night they met (standing beside the transport truck and sharing his flask) had felt like the beginning of something. Despite their circumstances and surroundings, he’d teased her until she smiled and told her stories of the world he’d left behind. But she didn’t know him, not really. They were strangers brought together and propelled apart by the unpredictable tide of war. 

They’d exchanged sporadic letters between their posts (her assignments moving further from the front lines and his pressing closer) and coordinating brief visits as their schedules allowed. The last time she saw Killian was the night before she’d returned to America. She’d written a steady stream of letters to fill the distance but had never received a reply. 

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” 

Emma considered her options quickly. Her cabin was the best choice, far enough away from town that their voices wouldn’t carry. She’d worked too hard to establish a place for herself in town. “Come on,” she said.  



	2. Chapter 2

They walked past several storefronts but few people. “I live just past that ridge,” Emma said, pointing at the treeline. “Unless you’d prefer to stay in town?”

Killian shrugged. He’d gone straight from the train to a farmer’s truck, hitching a ride to Storybrooke.

His stomach growled with hunger. He’d been foolish to come here. They’d only known each other a few weeks but he remembered her eyes (pale green and kind) and had treasured every letter she’d written.

He’d waited for weeks in the field but hadn’t received a letter after she returned home. The letter in his pocket, heavily creased and stamped with multiple lines of forwarding instructions, had felt like a sign.

Killian had boarded the first ship bound for New York that he could book passage on. There was nothing for him in the village where he’d been raised; his brother was dead as were his three best friends from childhood. The only person who made him feel anything was an American nurse with blonde curls; her words made him feel whole.

In her letters, Emma had told him much about her life before the War: parents dead before she could remember them, raised most of her life in an orphanage before she’d turned fifteen and run away. She’d lied about her age in order to join the war effort, telling the woman behind the desk that she was eighteen and signed her name before she could reconsider.

“Couldn’t we drive?” He didn’t mind the walking but he wanted to get her talking. Maybe conversation would loosen the tight set of her shoulders.

“No,” she replied.

“Swan.”

“Don’t,” she interrupted sharply. “It’s Emma here. Not Swan. Understand?”

He didn’t but it was useless to argue with her as they walked down the sidewalk.

The further they walked, the more uneven the path became. “I think I’ve stepped back in time,” he grumbled.

“It’s not that bad,” she replied sharply, one hand hitching up the hem of her skirt so it didn’t catch on rocks. Her green dress was a far cry from the uniform he remembered.

He felt like he knew her but standing beneath the hot sun, Killian realized how little he understood. They’d become close in the middle of hell, hurt and broken and desperate for human contact. Nothing more.

“I’m sorry,” he said, hitching the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder. He’d misunderstood things, overstepped the boundaries of polite society and behavior.

Emma inhaled sharply. “Come on,” she said, tilting her head, “we’re almost there. It’s cooler on the porch than it is out here.”

Killian followed behind, the strap of his bag digging into his shoulder (rain must be coming).

When they crested the hill, a small cottage came into view. It was farther away than he had imagined her living, but then his imagination had never been grand. Still curiosity demanded answers. “Why so far away?”

“It was meant for someone else.”

Killian glanced over. He’d heard too many stories of farms left for ruin, homes that would never hear the laughter of children, entire neighborhoods reduced to only a few residents.

Emma continued without prompting. “Marco, the man who built it, told me he wanted to burn it down when his son died. But he said it was the last thing they did together. So he lets me rent it for less than I should pay.”  

They climbed the two steps separating the porch from the ground. Emma settled herself onto the bench and glanced over at Killian. “You can sit,” she said.

He sat beside her on the bench. The land in front of them was gorgeous, lush and green, with a view of the forest.

“It’s beautiful.” For the briefest moment, it was comfortable to sit beside her in silence.

“I like it,” she replied quietly, her hands folded in her lap.

Killian was struck by the realization that he hadn’t spoken aloud to Emma in years; he’d become accustomed to speaking to the Emma Swan in his own head. “Why didn’t you write?”

“What?” She whirled to face him, eyes ablaze. “I did. I wrote you every month after I got back. But I never heard back.”

Killian patted his left coat pocket, “this letter was the first one I received.”

“How is that possible?” Emma turned away, arms crossed. “I don’t believe it.”

“Why? Did you really think I would ignore your letters?”

She didn’t answer, hands clasped together in her lap.

Killian had dreamed about Emma Swan since they parted ways. He’d carried the image of her hair (shiny spun gold that seemed to glow beneath her nurse’s cap) in his mind, turning it over when the skies turned gray or his memories dark. He’d counted the freckles on her nose and cheeks, spent hours trying to conjure an exact match for the shade of her green eyes. She was a reminder of a world that no longer existed.

“When I didn’t hear from you, I thought perhaps you didn’t feel as I did.” He couldn’t stop, the words coming faster. “I thought…the War, it wasn’t easy for any of us. I thought you were being polite. I didn’t want you to…"

“To what?” Genuine confusion twisted her face.  

“I didn’t want you to feel obligated,” Killian admitted. “I love you.”

Emma’s expression changed, color draining from her cheeks. “Please don’t say that.”

“Don’t what?” Indignation thickened his accent. How could he not love her? She’d saved his life, pulled him from the darkness of battle and given him hope.

He remembered their last afternoon, hidden in a small barn, hoping against hope that they would be safe until sundown. The driver had taken the truck into the woods, leaving them behind. They’d been too conscious of the sand slipping through the hourglass to consider sleeping, installing themselves in the overhead loft to wait out the light. When the driver returned, Killian would return to his unit and Emma would continue toward the coast (her trip home was already three months past due but the replacement nurses had been delayed). Killian could still remember the way her bare skin glowed, her hair bright against the drab fabric of the blanket trapped beneath their bodies, the way her fingers felt pressed against his shoulders. He had turned the afternoon’s events over in his mind so many times that Killian felt as though no time had passed.

But, as he stared at her, Killian realized that he’d never told her any of those things. From Emma Swan’s perspective, their last conversation was three years prior, a stolen moment to say goodbye, too aware of the chaos around them.

“I apologize if I’ve overstepped.” He spoke quickly, each syllable clipped, in an effort to keep his temper.

She studied him for a long moment. The silence grew; without noise from the town Killian could only hear the rush of blood between his ears.

Emma stood up quickly. “I’m starving. Can you head around back and see if there are any eggs?”

Killian was certain that the heat had addled his brain. Surely she wasn’t asking him to stay. He’d gotten his answer; she had written him but the letters had never arrived. He shouldn’t expect more.

“What’s wrong Lieutenant? Don’t you know how to fetch eggs?” Her smile was thin but it gave Killian a brief glimpse of hope.

He stumbled in the direction of the barn. It was a narrow space, barely large enough for a horse, but he found the nest easily. When he returned to the cabin, Emma was already in front of the stove.

The door slammed against his heels. Emma glanced over her shoulder. “Success?”

“Two eggs,” he said, showing them to Emma, feeling foolish (like a child waiting for praise), but she just smiled.

She gestured at the metal coffee pot on the stovetop. “The coffee should be warm.”

Killian reached for a small cup (larger than a tea cup but smaller than a soup bowl) and took a cautious sip. It was bitter and tasted faintly like cinnamon. He glanced at her stove. The eggs sizzled in the cast-iron pan. Killian’s stomach growled.

The acrid smell of something burning filled the air. “Food’s done,” Emma announced.

He swallowed the rest of his coffee. Emma scraped the burnt pieces of egg onto a plate and passed one to him. They moved across the cabin to the window. There was a small table with two rough-hewn wooden chairs.

Killian glanced at the mess on his plate – it was half-raw and half-burnt. If he didn’t chew it too much, he might be able to finish this (it couldn’t be worse than some of the things he’d eaten in the service).  

He speared a piece on the edge of his fork and shoveled it into his mouth. It was as bad as he’d imagined (maybe worse). She was a terrible cook.

Emma’s cheeks colored. “It’s horrible, I know. I can’t cook at all.”

He swallowed quickly, struggling not to laugh. She was right. “It’s alright,” he lied. He wasn’t a skilled cook, but he could do well enough to keep himself alive.

“Liar,” Emma shot back, pushing her own egg across the plate.

He didn’t know what she was thinking. There were too many questions he wanted to ask and Killian didn’t know where to start.

“Did you go home?” She held her fork above the plate.

Killian shook his head. “No.” He’d lost home. “I tried to go back but there was nothing for me.”

She set her fork down without taking a bite. “I understand.”

Killian stuffed another piece of egg into his mouth.

Sunlight came through the open window. Something was different about her, something he didn’t remember from before.


	3. Chapter 3

“Why this town?“ Killian peered across the table, eyes watching her far too intently.

She hesitated. “I don’t know.” The story wasn’t terribly long or interesting. “I needed to get out of Boston. I met a woman heading to Maine and it sounded like as a good a place as any other.”

Emma had met Mary Margaret Nolan at the railway station. Newly married, Mary Margaret was returning home after sending her husband back to battle. Emma wanted to get as far away as possible. She wasn’t showing yet, having moved the buttons on her skirt to accommodate her expanding waistline, but she was running out of time. So far she had been fortunate. She’d managed to escape her landlady’s close scrutiny and hadn’t told Matron the real reason why she was unable to continue as a nurse (she’d waited until a new Matron came on shift, one Emma had never met, before she left).

The line had snaked around the building and Mary Margaret had struck up a conversation with Emma. Emma had been shocked how easily the lies fell from her lips, mixing with bits of truth to create a new story. She’d told Mary Margaret about the War and her service as a nurse, but she’d added a husband (a whirlwind romance, Emma had said, blushing at the words) to round out her story.

When they approached the counter, Emma had confessed that she didn’t have a destination and Mary Margaret had declared it a happy coincidence. Emma still didn’t know whether she’d asked or Mary Margaret had insisted, but somehow when they got off the train, Emma followed the other woman all the way back to Storybrooke.

Emma reached for the empty plates. She needed to tell him about Henry but the words stuck in her throat.

“What’s this?”

Emma looked up from the sink. Killian was standing in front of her shelf. When he turned around, Emma could see the thin gold ring between his thumb and index finger.

She’d forgotten the ring; she always removed it before going to work, so it didn’t get caught on the fish as she separated them. “It’s not what you think.”

“Really?” Killian paced the small space. “Then what is it?”

The words rose inside her; it was too soon. She wouldn’t let Killian destroy the life she had worked so hard to carve out for herself.

“You’re married,” he repeated.

“No.” She swallowed over her suddenly dry throat. “When I didn’t hear from you,” Emma continued, tears burning her eyes, “I didn’t know what to think. But I kept writing, just in case I was wrong.”

“Did you write to tell me you were engaged?”

“No!” Her voice exploded between them. “I wrote…I tried to tell you.“

“Tell me what?” His cheeks were red in the half-light.

She’d sent three letters from Storybrooke. Initially Emma hadn’t known what to think, alternating between feeling abandoned and rejected. But Henry hadn’t given her time to think about more than surviving one more day. Fortunately Mary Margaret had pushed Emma into a tight-knit circle of women who had raised their families alone while their husbands were away at sea. They had rallied around the young widow and even though it was a lie, Emma wouldn’t have survived without their support. She felt guilty, taking advantage of their generosity and kindness, but she didn’t have any other options. Without her job at the cannery, she wouldn’t be able to pay Marco for her cabin or Mary Margaret to mind Henry while she worked. They’d be on the streets, or worse (she knew the horrors of growing up in an orphanage).

“I wanted to tell you,” she insisted weakly. “But I couldn’t wait.”

His face was unreadable and she held her breath, waiting for him to arrive at the logical conclusion.

“Emma?” He glanced at the ring, realization dawning. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Emma bristled, tears falling freely. “You’re not.” The admission made her dizzy.

Killian swore, his eyes wide.

Emma shook her head, swiping at her cheek with her fingers, her defenses rising. Anger replaced her fear; how dare he come to her town and turn her life upside down?

“I’m sorry,” he said roughly. “You must hate me.”

She couldn’t lie to him, not here (no more than she could have lied to him when they’d met). “Some days. Other times I started believing what I’ve been telling people.”

“Which is?”

The story tumbled out. Killian rocked back and forth, crossed his arms, raked his hands through his hair, but didn’t interrupt. Emma told him about leaving nursing and meeting Mary Margaret and settling in town. When she’d run out of words, Killian gestured at the chairs. They sat down on opposite sides of the table.

“His name’s Henry.” She watched the thoughts turn over in his head.

“And he thinks I’m dead?”

Emma frowned. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I didn’t know what I was going to tell him when he started asking. But everyone in town thinks I’m a widow.“

“So the women I met earlier…”

“Thinks you’re my husband returned from the dead.”

Killian leaned forward in his chair, laughter ringing through the tiny cabin.

Emma tried to relax. Nothing felt real. She’d dreamed of seeing Killian again, but never like this, never in Storybrooke.

“Can I meet him?”

Emma didn’t know what to say; if he was telling the truth and hadn’t received her letters, she couldn’t hate him (not like before). But she wasn’t ready to let him back into her life. Her life was upside down.

Killian didn’t press. He stood up quickly.

“You thought I abandoned you,” he said roughly, standing with his back to her and staring out the window.

She didn’t know what to say. There were so many questions she needed answers, things he needed to understand, but she couldn’t focus.

Emma stepped across the room and retrieved a small bottle of whiskey from behind a row of books. Her hand hovered over a thin green volume. She glanced over her shoulder. Killian was still facing the window.

“Drink?”

“Aye.”

Emma poured a small amount of whiskey into two teacups. She placed both on the table. Killian came away from the window, sliding onto the wooden chair without a word. Emma didn’t sit down, going instead to the bookshelf and retrieving the thin book. It felt heavy in her hands.

She’d never stopped writing but had stopped posting letters. She’d taken to scribbling paragraphs onto the margins of a book of poetry. She wasn’t good with words, didn’t know how to express herself properly, but writing occupied her mind when she couldn’t sleep.

“Here.” She dropped the book onto the table before sitting down. He needed to know what he had missed.

Killian turned the book over in his hands. “What is it?”

“I didn’t stop writing,” she admitted. Her voice was thin. Emma felt exhaustion crashing over her like a wave.

Killian stared at the leather cover. “Will you read them to me?”

Emma hid her astonished expression behind the cup. It was hard enough to give him the book without trying to say the words. But she’d asked him to take an enormous chance; the least she could do was give him this.

She nodded, resisting the urge to gulp down the rest of her whiskey. The pages fluttered when she opened the book. She’d tucked scraps of paper inside as well, filling the blank spaces with words.

Emma skimmed the words, squinting to make sense of the hastily scrawled letters. “Killian,” she glanced over at him. He’d settled himself on the opposite side of the table. He nodded, swirling his whiskey in the glass. “It’s snowing again. The doctor is worried about me being so far from town on my own but I don’t want to abandon the cabin.” She licked her lips. Henry had been born in the early spring.

She flipped to the center of the book. “Last night a ship came in from Ireland. I thought of you. Wherever you are, I hope you can see the ocean.”

Emma thumbed to another page, turning the book sideways. “Did I ever tell you that when I was a child, I used to pretend Christmas was my birthday too and that all the celebrations were for me? I wish it was true.”

The next entry was harder; she couldn’t look up to gauge his expression. “Henry’s walking properly now. He’s tearing across the cabin faster than I can chase him. I never imagined staying in Storybrooke but now it’s the only place that feels like home.”

Emma closed the book, wiping her damp cheeks with her free hand (she hadn’t noticed the tears building until they began to fall). She licked her lips, averting her eyes before Killian said anything.

“I’ve missed everything,” he replied, voice rough.

Feelings she’d suppressed came rushing back. She reached out, touching his hand gently. “No, not everything.“

It was too much. She stood up quickly, one hand pressed against the table.

"Emma.” His lips curled around her name. Killian came around the table and stood beside Emma. “Do you want me to stay?”

She shook her head, already mentally retreating. ‘No’ burned on her tongue; it would be easier to push him away. “Maybe.”

He leaned forward, pressing his lips against hers in a fierce kiss before she could continue.

She’d spent months dreaming about the feel of his lips against her own. But she’d forgotten him. She was drowning and falling and riding the back of the wind. It was everything she remembered and more.

Emma rested her forehead against Killian’s when they broke apart.

“Now what?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ve spent my whole life with people telling me who I am. I got used to punching back and telling them ‘no, this is who I am.’ But I’m tired.“

It was a relief to say the words aloud. She’d struggled and scraped out an existence alone for too long. Killian turned around, catching her elbow before she could back away.

“Then let me help.”

She hesitated, one hand against his chest. "I need to get Henry.” Emma glanced over his shoulder at the window. “You can come with me. Could we start there?”

Killian nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “I’d like that.”

“But I don’t want to confuse him,” Emma cautioned. “He’s just a kid.”

“And what should I do? Pretend to be a stranger?”

She flushed. “No. But you can’t expect to just show up here and start changing my life around.”

“I didn’t say anything of the sort,” Killian countered angrily.

Emma relented, shoulders dropping. “I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted. She trailed off; she was used to being alone, to making all of their decisions by herself, not stopping to second-guess. The idea of letting him into her life was terrifying.

“Then let’s start slow,” he replied, taking her right hand in his left. “We’ll collect the lad and ignite a firestorm of gossip.”

Emma grinned, despite her trepidation. “Gossip? You might be mistaken.”

Killian chuckled, “I grew up in a village like this. News of a man returned from the dead is enough to spark even the most serious person’s curiosity.”

* * *

Killian was right. The walk from Emma’s cabin to Mary Margaret’s house was punctuated with well-wishers coming out to congratulate the couple. Even grumpy old Leroy stopped Emma and Killian to offer his opinion (it involved Killian working on the boats but she didn’t listen closely).

Mary Margaret’s house was on the opposite side of town and by the time they reached her front gate, Emma was exhausted. She’d been through a gauntlet and they hadn’t even gotten Henry. Emma lifted the latch and stepped through the gate. Killian followed behind but before they could reach the front porch, Henry launched himself at Emma’s legs.

Mary Margaret was sitting on the porch. Slowly she got to her feet; her pregnancy was just beginning to show. By autumn Emma would have to find someone else to mind Henry during the day.

Killian looked down at Henry’s unruly dark brown hair, thin arms wrapped tight around Emma’s leg.

Henry didn’t pay any attention to Killian, reaching his arms above his head. “Up Momma.” Emma hoisted him onto her hip. He clutched her neck, staring sideways at Killian.

Mary Margaret waved from the steps. “I’m sorry,” she said, cheeks flushed pink, “he wanted to see you.”

“It’s alright,” Emma replied, tickling Henry with her free hand. He was uncharacteristically quiet. “Mary Margaret, this is Killian.“

Mary Margaret’s mouth dropped open but Emma talked faster, unwilling to let her friend get a word in edgewise. "Killian, Mary Margaret Nolan.”

Killian nodded. “Pleasure.” His body radiated tension but his voice was level.

Henry tucked his head against Emma’s chest but his eyes were fixed on Killian. Emma turned her son in her arms. She and Killian needed to have a long conversation if this was going to work. But they didn’t need an audience.

Fortunately Mary Margaret didn’t press them to stay, saying her goodbyes and retiring to her chair.

They walked through Mary Margaret’s gate. Henry began to squirm in Emma’s arms. “Henry walk,” he requested.

Killian’s head snapped sideways. “He talks?”

“Most kids do,” Emma replied, holding Henry’s hand in her own. If he followed the usual pattern, Henry would tire of walking before they passed the clocktower. She asked Henry questions as they walked, Killian quiet at her side. Tonight they made it almost to the bakery before Henry grew tired, clutching at Emma’s skirt. Henry tended to grow quiet as his energy flagged. She bent forward but Killian touched her arm.

“May I?”

“Up?” Henry reached for Killian’s hands before she could answer. “Up!” Henry’s forehead wrinkled (Emma knew there was a tantrum brewing on the horizon).

Killian swallowed hard, but Emma smiled. “Go ahead.”

Killian’s expression was unreadable as he swept Henry into his arms. Emma glanced over. “I did the same thing. Relax,” she urged, “he’ll be okay.”

Henry’s head began to droop when they passed the docks. By the time they reached Emma’s cabin, he was asleep, his head resting on Killian’s shoulder. Killian stood on the porch, unsure what to do, but Emma knew they had wake Henry up. Otherwise he’d be awake before sunrise.

She reached for Henry and during the shift, his eyes opened. “Morning?” He asked and Emma shook her head. “No. See the sun?” Emma turned so Henry could see the glowing sun.

They stumbled through the evening and by the time Henry had been put to bed, Emma was exhausted. “He’s a marvel,” Killian told her when she joined him on the porch.

She flushed with pride. “Thanks.”

“His eyes remind me of my brother.”

She’d wondered about Henry’s dark brown eyes. His hair was dark like Killian’s and he definitely had her nose; now the pieces came together.

Emma stared across the yard. In the growing darkness she could barely make out the treeline.

“What are we going to do Swan?”

She glanced over. “It’s been almost three years since anyone called me that.”

“Really?”

Emma nodded, “I didn’t want to answer questions. It seemed easier to become someone else.”

“And just who are you then?”

“Emma Jones.”

Killian reached out, the pressure of his hand warm against her knuckles. “I see.”

She blushed, unable to meet his eye. There were too many answers, each worse than the previous. “You seem remarkably calm about all this,” Emma said.

He exhaled slowly. “When I didn’t hear from you, I thought the worst. You’d met someone else. Moved on.”

Emma licked her lips. “I thought the same about you.”

Killian wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I’m here now.”

“I know.” Emma had forgotten the way her skin buzzed around Killian. “I missed you.” It was a clumsy start but it was something.

He grinned. “And you.”

She tried to relax but the questions persisted. “So what are we going to do?”

“Whatever happens it’s up to you as much as me,” he replied.

His words released the tightness in Emma’s chest. For the first time all day she focused on Killian (her Killian), desperate to fill in the missing years between them.

* * *

They remained on the porch long after the stars had come out, hammering out the particulars.

“Do you really think people will believe we’re married?” Emma whispered the last word hoarsely. It felt impossible.

“Why not?” Killian sat facing Emma, hands behind his head. “You’ve laid the groundwork. I won’t contradict it. As for the rest, I’ll tell the truth: we parted ways. You returned home and I didn’t receive your letters. You thought the worst.”

“It’s a lot to keep straight.” Emma let out a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Come on,” Killian said, offering Emma his hand, “we’ve done enough for tonight.”

Inside the cabin, reality rose to meet them. She knew it was late and that the sensible thing to do would be go to bed and resume their conversation in the morning, but Emma was tired of being sensible.

Emma glanced at the narrow hallway leading to her bedroom. Killian followed her gaze. “I can sleep here,” he gestured at the armchair. “Not that I sleep much anymore.”

Emma still had nightmares about the war, dreams that left her gasping for breath or pacing the cabin rooms in the middle of the night. It was reassuring to know she wasn’t the only one.

She shook her head, “it’s alright.” If they were going to jump into this ridiculous idea, Emma wanted to jump with both feet. She wanted to go to sleep next to the comforting warmth of Killian’s body and wake up with his elbow digging into her ribcage or his cold feet against her calf. They had always stolen their time before. Now everything was different.

Strange how the sight of him could rekindle feelings she’d tried to suppress. Now sensation rushed through her body. Emma felt alive for the first time in a very long while.

It wasn’t an easy road ahead of them but they could manage together.


End file.
